IliJJflUiliiHniilnUIIIIIilUUJliUimiuuunimui 
UC-NRLF 


UlUiUIII 


iiiuinniiiiiiiiiiiHiiiMiiiH^^^^ 


B   3   123   bH2 


I  illili 


Glenn  ward  drcsbach 


»   i '  I    1  r 


iiii 


ill 


1!i 


iii' 


'iiiijllii^ 


iiliiin 


/^.  ^9j^^^  AIUj'..J^i\ 


The 
Road  to  Everywhere 


By 

Glenn  Ward  Dresbach 


Boston 

The  Gorham  Press 

1916 


Copyright,  1916,  by  Glenn  Ward  Dresbach 
All  Rights  Reserved 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


TO  YOU 


346646 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

Many  of  these  poems  have  appeared  in  Scribners, 
Poetry,  Smart  Set,  Munsey's,  Ainslee's,  The  Pacific 
Monthly,  The  New  York  Times,  The  Star  and 
Herald  of  Panama  and  LaFolletfs  Weekly,  and  I 
thank  them  for  permission  to  republish. 

Glenn  Ward  Dresbach. 

Tyrone,  New  Mexico. 
February   15,   191 6. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Vagabond  at  the  Gates 1 1 

Songs  for  a  Violin 12 

]\IooN  Magic ^4 

A  Road  Song 16 

Song ^7 

Wisdom 18 

The  Songs  of  Pan i9 

Inspiration 20 

The    Crucible 21 

A  Vagabond's  Song  on  the  Road     ...  22 

Fear 23 

Ode  on  the  Completion  of  the  Panama 

Canal 24 

The  Builder 28 

Songs  of  the  Sirens 29 

Song        3i 

The  Weaker  Arm 32 

Fireflies 4^ 

In  the  Gift-God's  Praise 42 

Reality         46 

The  Gray  Haired  Madonna     ....  47 

The  Dreamer's  House 51 

Neptune's  Song  of  His  Horses  ....  53 


PAGE 

Panamanian  Nights 54 

To  THE  Statuette  of  a  Boy 56 

Song        58 

Roumanian  Girl 59 

Hunting  Song 62 

Song  .      .      .      . 64 

The  Palace  of  Dreams 65 

Song 67 

Gipsy  Song 68 

Song 69 

Nemesis 70 

Smiles 71 

Chanty  of  the  West  Wind     ....  72 
The  Road  Between  the  Willows  .      .      -73 

What  of  the  Morning? 74 


Life  is  the  Road  to  Every^^here.     AzvhiU 

We  have  to   roam   its  miles  of  gloom  and  gleam. 

In  dreams  it  starts,  and  at  the  utmost  mile 
It  ends  ivithin  a  Dream. 

Aivhile  ive  have  to   roam  its  miles,  to  find 
What  ive  may  find,  to  hope,  to  dream,  to  trust, 

To  strive,  to  love  —  and  then  to  leave  behind 
Dust  in  the  immortal  Dust. 

Though  I  have  lost  love  still  I  sing  of  love. 

Though  I  have  failed  in  battles  still  there  sings 

The  fighting  spirit  in  me,  and  above 
Myself  my  Soul  has  vuings. 

Though  I  have  seen   men  suffer  for  their  dreams. 
Still  of  the  Dreams  I  sing,  and  suffer,  too. 

I  know  that  past  our  vision  there  are  gleams 
That  leap  from  depths  of  blue. 

Though  I  have  heard  the  song  echo  aivay. 
Still  of  the  Song  I  sing  and  feel  its  thrill. 

I  knovj  that  past  the  portals  of  To-day 
The  Song  shall  have  its  ivill. 

So  if  I  give  you  smiles  instead  of  tears 

And  give  you  bloom  instead  of  v:eathered  clod, 

Knovj  I  have  looked  beyond  the  haze  of  years, 
And  seen  the  Glory  of  God. 

So  I  may  please  God  vAth  the  songs  I  give 
If  they  are  true  to  heart  and  earth  and  sky, 

If  they  help  one  be  happy  but  to  live 
And  unafraid  to  die. 


THE  ROAD  TO  EVERYWHERE 


A  VAGABOND  AT  THE  GATE;S: 

What  is  this  strife  and  worry  all  about, 

This  building  up  and  tearing  down  of  things? 
I  know  a  wood  where  birds  flit  in  and  out, 
And  the  west  wind  sings. 

What  of  the  sobs  and  hate-words  that  I  hear. 
This  shouting  and  mad  barter  in  the  street? 
I  know  a  calm  hill  where  the  stars  seem  near 
And  the  airs  are  sweet. 

What  of  the  power  that  passes  in  a  breath, 

This  digging  for  the  buried  gates  of  Doom? 
I  know  a  vale  where  echoes  laugh  at  Death, 
And  the  wild  flowxrs  bloom. 

What  of  this  learning,  all  this  wonderous  lore. 

This  making  kites  for  winds  to  break  the  spring? 
I  know  the  fields  where  men  have  learned  before 
How  the  heart  can  sing. 

Yet  if  I  had  not  lived  this  strife  and  pain, 

Nor  shed  hot  tears,  nor  learned  of  hate  at  last, 
I  could  not  love  so  well  the  quiet  plain 
And  the  skies  so  vast. 

Had  I  not  learned  how  power  soon  grows  old. 

Nor  gathered  from  the  lore  of  every  land, 
I  could  not  scorn  the  things  of  dross  and  gold 
For  a  grain  of  sand. 

II 


SONGS  FOR  A  VIOLIN 


Blown  gold  was  the  hair  of  the  child 

In  the  wind  and  the  sun  by  the  sea, 
And  the  sea  was  silver  and  jade 
And  pearl  where  the  breakers  played 
Like  children  strange  and  wild 
In  a  pagan  ecstasy. 
And  the  child  cried  out  to  his  mother, 
"  O  let  me  play  in  the  sea !  " 
But  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  mother 
Weary  with  waiting  long, 
"  Hush,  my  child,  come  near  to  me. 
The  sea  is  cruel  and  strong!  " 


II 

It  seems  sometimes  that  I  have  been 

Upon  an  island  far  at  sea, 
Shipwrecked,  alone,  and  I  have  seen 

White  sails  beyond  the  call  of  me, 
Have  seen  them  pass  —  to  what  fair  skies 
Beyond  the  hunger  of  my  eyes? 


12 


Ill 

The  dead  may  know!     How  can  we  say? 

So,  when  the  tomb  is  over  me, 

You  who  in  life  could  never  give 

The  things  that  with  the  dead  may  live, 

Come  all  alone,  and  silently 

Give  unto  me  at  close  of  day 

A  red  rose  for  your  lips  I  pressed 

So  oft  in  dreams,  and  bending  low 

Give  me  a  lily  for  your  breast  — 

The  dead  mav  know^ ! 


13 


MOON  MAGIC 

The  Moon  drops  back  her  purple  robe 
Of  clouds  that  trail  the  shadow  sea, 
And  glides  in  silk  of  silver  mist 
Down  star-lit  lanes  of  amethyst  ; 

And  lo,  she  smiles  so  magically 
That  shapes  of  Day  scorned  to  the  sight 
Become  the  glories  of  the  Night. 

This  shattered  tree  I  saw  by  day, 

Weak  after  battles  with  the  blast. 
Stands  robed  in  garb  of  victory, 
With  gaunt  arms  lifting  bare  and  free, 

As  some  wild  warrior  of  the  past. 
Crowned  as  no  king  is  crowned  it  stands 
The  sentinel  of  the  shadow-lands. 

On  this  old  house  I  saw  by  day, 
With  moss-grown  roof  and  rotting  eaves, 

The  benediction  of  the  Moon 

Has  fallen,  and  I  hear  the  croon 

Of  nun-like  winds  and  lisp  of  leaves. 

And  somewhere  in  the  rooms  above 

I  hear  the  restful  voice  of  Love. 


14 


This  old  hill  road  I  saw  by  day 

Wind  long  and  gray,  and  silently, 
Now  leads  to  bloom-sweet  vales  of  Night, 
And  fairy-folk  with  lanterns  bright 

Go  dancing  on  the  way  w^ith  me. 
Yet  once  I  cursed  on  this  same  road 
The  weary  miles,  the  crushing  load. 

O  Moon,  smile  magic  on  my  heart 

Some  silver  night  within  the  years, 
As  on  the  tree  that  lost  its  leaves, 
As  on  the  house  with  rotting  eaves. 
As  on  the  road  I  trod  with  tears  — 
And  somewhere  in  the  rooms  above 
O  leave  the  restful  voice  of  Love ! 


15 


A  ROAD  SONG 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  he  said. 

*'  Where  are  you  going?  "  said  I. 
Then  he  cried :     "  Where  the  dawn  throws  red 

And  silver  over  the  sky ; 
Somewhere  the  boughs  are  swinging, 
Somewhere  a  thrush  is  singing, 
Somewhere  the  winds  are  winging 

O'er  places  wide  and  high." 

And  I  shouted,  "  So  am  I !  " 

"  Of  what  are  you  dreaming?  "  he  said. 

"  Of  w^hat  are  you  dreaming?  "  said  I. 
He  replied:     "  Of  camp-fires  red 

And  a  roof  of  starry  sky ; 
Of  waking  to  find  that  the  singing 
In  boughs  above  me  swinging 
Is  not  a  dream ;  of  springing 

To  catch  winds  laughing  by." 

And  I  shouted,  "  So  am  I !  " 

"  What  are  you  leaving?  "  he  said. 

"  What  are  you  leaving?  "  said  I. 
And  he  told  me:     "  The  things  that  are  dead 

When  we  get  out  to  the  sky  ; 
The  false  gods  and  their  grinning, 
The  threads  Fate  twisted  spinning, 
And  all  but  the  beginning 

In  places  wide  and  high." 

And  I  shouted,  ''  So  am  I !  " 

i6 


SONG 

The  roses  are  dead  in  the  garden, 
And  the  wind  comes  and  goes 

Bearing  them  into  the  silence  — 
For  each  of  my  dreams  a  rose. 

The  door  to  the  house  is  bolted 

And  on  the  hearth  no  fire ! 
And  my  heart  keeps  burning,  burning 

With  the  live  coals  of  Desire. 

Yet  here  when  the  roses  were  blooming 
I  turned  from  their  thorns  in  pain, 

And  here  when  the  door  was  open 
I  dreamed  of  a  palace  in  Spain. 


17 


WISDOM 

So  light  of  foot  was  she  when  in  the  gloom 
She  came  to  save  the  low  flame  of  his  soul 
Blurred  with  the  soot  of  days  beyond  control 
He  did  not  hear  her  in  the  breathless  room. 
She  came  as  softly  as  the  Spring's  perfume 
On  velvet  winds  that  kiss  a  foam-pearled  shoal 
Whereon  with  undersong  sweet  waters  roll  — 
He  felt  her  presence  break  the  doors  of  Doom! 

And  he  had  dreamed  that  she  would  come  as  one 
Decked  in  the  gems  that  all  the  ages  know, — 
Queen  Wisdom  of  the  world,  proud  in  her  name, 
Her  dark  hair  bright  with  diamonds  in  the  sun; 
And  yet,  to  him  in  gloom  when  stars  were  low, 
Soft  as  the  night-wind  lulled  to  sleep  she  came. 


i8 


THE  SONGS  OF  PAN 

Why  will  you  say  that  Pan  is  dead, 

With  his  reed  pipes  scattered  and  torn  ? 

I  heard  him  play,  where  the  willows  sway 

By  a  stream  of  song  that  lilts  away, 
A  melody  made  in  the  morn ; 

And  he  played  of  love  and  the  sweets  of  a  smile, 

And  of  dreams  come  true  in  the  Afterwhile, 
Of  the  rose  that  hides  the  thorn. 

Why  will  you  say  that  Pan  is  dead, 

With  his  reed  pipes  lost  in  the  years? 
I  heard  him  weep  with  the  winds  that  keep 
Toll  of  the  hearts  on  the  land  and  the  deep, 
And  he  played  with  the  drop  of  his  tears 
A  melody  made  of  the  cries  of  the  street, 
Of  the  heavy  throb  of  the  passing  feet, 
Of  the  dead  dreams  and  of  fears. 

Why  will  you  say  that  Pan  is  dead. 

With  his  reed  pipes  blown  apart? 
Even  today  you  must  hear  him  play. 
Nor  gold  nor  hell  can  drive  him  away 

From  the  fields  of  the  sun  and  the  mart. 
Listen  awhile!     Ah,  is  he  dead? 
Each  day  he  has  come  as  the  years  have  fled, 

And  piped  the  songs  in  your  heart. 


19 


INSPIRATION 

I  show  men  things  thej^  do  not  sec 

So  oft  they  pass  them  by; 
And  some  have  found  new  things  to  love, 

New  splendors  in  the  sky. 

I  pull  the  veil  from  Mystery 

And  show  her  cynic's  smile; 
Men  look  a  foolish  look,  and  feel 

They  knew  her  all  the  while. 

I  give  a  youth  the  power  to  tell 

Old  lore  that  is  like  new ; 
The  wise  men  wag  their  heads  and  frown, 

And  know  the  words  are  true. 

A  beggar  played  his  violin 

Where  wind-folk  sob  and  sing; 

I  whispered  to  his  heart,  and  now 
He  plays  before  the  king. 

The  crowd  saw  but  the  parts  of  steel 

Piled  high  before  their  eyes; 
Long  to  the  builder's  heart  I  came  — 

He  saw  his  tower  rise. 

I  am  a  guest  that  comes  and  goes 
Not  lured  by  throne  or  mart; 

I  give  to  Man  the  love  of  Life  — 
Or  else  I  break  his  heart. 

ao 


THE  CRUCIBLE 

Life  is  the  crucible  wherein  we  test 

The  metal  of  our  dreams. 

Dross  melts,  at  best, 

Until  it  seems 

Changing,  before  our  eyes, 

Into  the  dust  of  lies. 

But  melt  your  bit  of  gold  — 

Still  it  will  hold 

A  brightness  and  a  worth 

Among  the  things  of  earth. 


21 


A  VAGABOND'S  SONG  ON  THE  ROAD 

My  heart  has  wandered  in  far  lands, 

Too  free  for  lagging  feet, 
Through  highlands  wild,  o'er  silver  sands, 

By  valleys  cool  and  sweet. 
And  it  has  found  rare  blooms  of  dreams 

And  precious  gems  of  cheer 
That  I  am  sure  it  could  not  find 
Had  it  not  left  me  far  behind 

To  tread  this  gray  road  here. 

Our  hearts  are  brothers  of  the  road, 

Each  with  its  place  to  find, 
Each  with  its  gladness  —  and  its  load, 

And  things  it  left  behind. 
And  as  I  wander  in  the  dawn 

Or  when   the  night   is  near, 
I  know  the  vagabonds  of  Dreams 
Will  go  with  me  to  hills  and  streams 

For  many  a  changing  year. 

And  it  has  pleased  me  as  I  roam 

To  know  a  cripple's  heart 
May  wander  from  its  broken  home 

And  roam  with  God  apart. 
And  it  has  shamed  my  wandering  ways, 

With  night-skies  for  my  tent. 
To  know  one  crippled  or  one  blind  , 

May  dwell  within,  ere  I  may  find. 

The  place  that  is  Content. 

22 


FEAR 

Where  Silence  holds  the  world  beneath  its  wings, 

Where  Life's  artillery  thunders  in  the  mart, 

With  subtle  force  I  shape  within  the  heart 

The  good  and  evil  destinies  of  things. 

But  I  am  one  whose  praises  no  one  sings, 

A  Power  that  men  scorn  and  hold  apart ; 

Yet  many  understand,  too  well,  the  Art 

Of  Valor  that  my  name,  but  mentioned,  brings. 

Oft  I  have  made  a  coward  heart  grow  brave 
Because  I  made  it  ponder  o'er  its  plight 
Until  the  world  seemed  but  a  place  of  eyes. 
And  it  has  been  my  lot  true  hearts  to  save, 
To  give  them  glimpses  deep  into  the  Night, 
To  show  them  writings  on  the  mist-hung  skies. 


23 


ODE  ON  THE  COMPLETION  OF  THE 
PANAMA  CANAL 


Another  wonder  of  the  world  is  made! 

The  great  work  is  done. 

Under  the  white  glare  of  the  tropic  sun 

What  seemed  a  dream  for  many  a  brave  decade 

Has  been  completed,  and  the  East  and  West 

At  last  are  one. 

Here  is  a  product  of  Man's  great  unrest, 

Striving  to  meet  his  ever-growing  need. 

Fools,  blind  to  that  white  flame  within  Man's  breast, 

Will  ever  seek  to  smirch  each  mighty  deed 

With  empty  blame  of  Greed. 

But  something  finer,   nobler,   grander  goes 

Into  Man's  handiwork,  half  understood  — 

The  stuff  of  dreams  lives  on  through  mortal  woes 

Working  its  glory  for  the  common  good! 


II 


We  know  how  the  work  was  done, 
How  men  suffered  and  strained  —  and  won  I 
How  can  we  fail  to  see 
This  modern  nobility? 


24 


Ill 


Let  no  names  be  said, 

Lest  one  of  the  dead 

Who  nameless  dug  his  part  of  every  hill 

Be  now  forgotten,  when  his  hands  are  still. 


IV 


Another  wonder  of  the  world  is  made ! 

Each  great  machine,  each  mighty  little  spade, 

Each  one  with  wonder  in  itself  is  still. 

Things  all   inanimate,   they   seemed   to   live 

Under  Man's  will, 

Doing  the  work  his  frail  hands  could  not  do, 
For  all  his  great  mind  knew. 
And  if,  as  some  say,  men,  too,  were  machines 
Driven  by  greater  minds  through  rain  and  sun. 
Behold  the  just  reward  of  honest  means! 
How  well  the  work  was  done! 


25 


The  task  is  done!     Men  turn,  and  go 

From  whence  they  came  In  answer  to  the  call. 

The  great  Dream  that  they  saw  about  them  grow 

Into  the  Real,  complete  makes  nobler  all. 

Each  in  his  heart  bears  back  some  dream  his  own, 

With  greater  hope  and  greater  faith  in  toil  — 

Whether  he  builds  his  dream  in  steel  or  stone 

Or  makes  it  grow  him  fruit  from  out  the  soil. 

Heroes   from  a  mighty  battlefield 

They  quietly  return  along  the  ways. 

While  such  men  are  a  part  of  the  Nation's  yield 

How  empty  seem   fears  of  declining  days! 

How  empty  stand  before  this  brotherhood 

All  things  not  great  and  good! 

VI 

And  yet  this  work  has  been  a  part 
Of  every  day,  w^ith  no  vain  glory  spread 
Over  the  toiler's  head. 

No  gaudy  tinsel  here,  no  shouting  in  the  mart, 
No  cheap,   unstable  lure. 
But  silent  efiFort,  great  and  strong  and  sure! 
No  emptiness  of  place,  no  pride  that  spoiled! 
For  wages  —  and   for  something  else,   men  toiled. 
No  pretty  word  or  mighty  sounding  phrase 
Is  worthy  of  the  beauty 

Some  men  can  work  from  out  the  common  days, 
Doing  their  common  duty. 

26 


VII 

All  human  blunder  and  all  personal  sin 

That  is  a  part  of  every  man  must  be 

Forgotten  in  his  work's  immensity. 

Achievement  must  begin 

Within  us  as  we  are. 

Man's  heart,  though  weak,  reflects  his  guiding  star. 


VIII 

The  mighty  oceans  join  after  long  years, 

Over  the  ground  that  knows  the  salt  of  tears 

A  bloody  and  unstable  ground  that  Man 

Has  glorified  and  freed  from  many  a  ban. 

The  Panama  of  pest-hole,  harlot,  lout 

Is  now  no  more.     She  stands. 

With  young,  unfettered  hands. 

Greeting  the  world  she  lived  so  long  without. 


IX 

Another  wonder  of  the  world  is  made! 
Nothing  can  spoil 

The  Spirit  that  has  made  it,  nothing  fade 
This  epic  page  of  Toil. 


27 


THE  BUILDER 

How  great  will  be  the  thing  that  he  builds? 

Not  quite  so  great  as  his  dreams  are  great; 
Not  quite  so  high  as  his  hopes  are  high; 

And  long  he  must  build  and  wait. 
But  the  glory  is,  if  he  builds  what  he  can, 
That  all  the  while  he  is  building  a  Man! 

And  what  will  he  build  as  the  years  go  by, 
With  stone  or  steel  or  the  might  of  a  theme? 

No  mansion,  we  know,  can  he  ever  build 
Out  of  a  cottage  dream. 

But  the  glory  is,  if  he  builds  at  all, 

That  his  soul  can  look  o'er  the  highest  wall! 


28 


SONGS  OF  THE  SIRENS 

Gone  are  the  sirens  from  the  sea 
Where  the  wild  white  horses  fret  in  the  spray; 
But  their  songs  live  on  in  the  dark  and  the 
dawn, 
And  they  have  haunted  you  many  a  day, 
And  they  have  called  you  away  and  away 
On  the  streets  and  the  plains  against  your  will, 
Never  still,  oh,  never  still. 

Gone  are  the  sirens  from  the  shore 
Where  the  sea  weed  gleams  like  a  maiden's  hair; 
But  a  siren-song  lives  sweet  and  strong 
In  the  laugh  of  a  woman  so  fair,  so  fair 
That  you  cannot  dream  of  pain  and  care; 
And  if  you  knew  your  heart  must  break, 
Break  it  must  for  her  sweet  sake. 

Gone  are  the  sirens  from  the  Isles 
Where  the  scarlet  wings  of  the  Morn  unfold ; 
But  a  siren-song  lives  harsh  and  strong 
In  the  maddening  clash  of  gold  on  gold. 
And  the  song  has  led  to  woes  untold; 
Yet  with  your  weary  heart  still  sore 
Gold  you  lose,  and  fight  for  more. 


29 


Gone  are  the  sirens  from  the  sea 
Where  the  gray  mists  drift  and  the  chill  rains  beat  ; 
But  a  siren-song  lives  wild  and  strong 
In  the  winds  that  call  to  you  in  the  street 
Of  winding  paths  where  the  flowers  are  sweet, 
Of  paths  you  followed  when  youth  was  gay  — 
Where,  oh  where,  do  they  lead  today? 


30 


SONG 

The  more  I  know  of  the  ocean 
The  more  I  love  to  hear 

A  little  hill-stream  singing 
All  tenderly,  and  near. 

But  the  more  I  know  of  the  ocean 

The  more  it  calls  to  me, 
Filling  my  soul  with  longing 
Akin  to  misery. 


31 


THE  WEAKER  ARM 


As  silent  as  a  dream  he  came, 

Day  after  day  when  work  was  done, 

To  that  same  bridge  at  set  of  sun 

When  tower  windows  gleamed  as  flame. 

And  there  the  river  glided  past 

The  silent  ships  and  walls  of  gray ; 

And  as  he  watched  it  seemed  at  last 

That  it  must  bear  his  heart  away 

And  cool  its  fever  in  the  bay. 

And  once  I  saw  him  in  the  rain  — 

I  close  my  eyes  and  see  him  yet 

Stand  silently  in  dumb  disdain 

Upon  the  bridge  all  wan  and  wet. 

But  after  this  he  came  no  more 

To  river  bridge  or  factor}^  door; 

And  one  who  knew  him  led  the  way 

Down  dingy  streets  with  walls  of  gray 

To  his  poor  room;  and  there  I  came 

When   tower  windows  gleamed   as  flame. 


32 


II 


"  You  cannot  give  me  aid,"  he  said, 
"  Nor  rest  in  life  nor  peace  in  death. 
Forever  I  shall  see  the  dead  — 
A  torn  child  writhe  with  sobbing  breath, 
A  strong  man  die,  limb  rent  from  limb, 
With  bleeding  horses  stamping  him. 
And  by  the  child  the  mother  stands, 
The  blood  she  nourished  on  her  hands; 
And  still  I  hear  her  soul's  wild  cry, 
And  though  I  would,  I  dare  not  die!  " 


III 

Nor  did  I  dare  to  let  him  die, 

Nor  can  I  tell  the  reason  why  — 

But  day  by  day  I  gave  him  care 

And  brought  the  priest  to  say  his  prayer. 

And  weary  hours  dragged  by  the  while  • 

He  greeted  me  and  tried  to  smile. 

And  once  he  called  me  as  I  came. 

And  sitting  trembling  on  his  bed 

He  told  me  all,  while  sunset's  red 

On  tower  windows  gleamed  as  flame. 


33 


IV 


"  I  was  a  student  In  a  land 

Where  men  are  slaves,  nor  understand 

The  law  of  laws  that  crush  them  down 

And  rob  their  lives  of  all  but  God, 

That  they  may  bow  to  rod  and  crown 

As  brothers  of  the  tares  and  clod. 

I  heard  the  sorrows  of  the  field. 

The  rate  of  tax,  the  scanty  yield ; 

And  all  the  while  the  breath  of  years 

Was  heavy  with  the  salt  of  tears. 

I  saw  the  governor  in  the  town 

With  pomp  and  pride  go  up  and  down 

The  streets  where  hungry  children  fled 

The  horses'  feet  he  would  not  check 

To  save   a   fallen   infant's  neck  — 

The  mother  watched,   and   bowed  her  head !  " 


*'  There  came  a  time  when  men  grew  brave. 
Poor  struggling  spirits  of  the  Right 
Came  to  their  secret  halls  by  night 
With  dreams  that  ended  in  the  grave. 
Now  even  secret  halls  have  ears 
That  guard  the  castles  in  the  town; 
And  even  as  men  quelled  their  fears 
The  soldiers  came  and  shot  them  down." 


34 


VI 


"  It  was  a  dark  and  rainy  morn. 

I  knew  that  he  was  with  them  there  — 

My  father,  O  my  father,  torn 

By  shot,  was  dead  upon  the  street. 

The  rain  had  smoothed  his  long  gray  hair, 

And  still  in  death  his  smile  was  sweet. 

And  he  was  all  that  was  my  own, 

For  since  my  birth  my  mother  slept. 

And  left  us  two.     And  now  alone 

I  fell  upon  the  street  and  wept. 

And  not  a  word  the  mourners  said. 

They  came  and  bore  away  their  dead. 

I  took  him  home  all  still  and  cold, 

And  on  his  bed  I  laid  him  down 

And  swore  on  heart  and  cross  of  gold 

To  kill  the  governor  in  the  town." 


35 


VII 

**  There  came  a  day  when  skies  were  fair  — 
A   festal   time  of   rest  and  Grace, 
And  crowds  were  in  the  market  place, 
And  priests  passed  by  with  chanted  prayer. 
I  passed  along  the  crowd  alone; 
I  saw  the  faces  wan  and  pale; 
I  heard  one  speak  in  fearful  tone ; 
I  heard  the  little  children  wail. 
It  was  a  day  when  skies  were  fair  — 
With  people  longing  for  their  dead ! 
Their  hearts  were  numb  with  toil  for  bread 
As  priests  passed  by  with  chanted  prayer. 
And  as  they  passed  my  spirit  stirred 
But  could  not  hear  a  praying  word. 
I  dreamed  it  was  a  rainy  morn  — 
I  could  not  keep  from  dreams,  it  seems, 
And  through  the  maze  that  draped  my  dreams 
I  saw  my  father  still  and  cold, 
His  sweet  smile  dealing  despots  scorn. 
I  touched  my  little  cross  of  gold, 
And  then  I  heard  dream-voices  say, 
'  This  is  the  day ! ' 


36 


VIII 

"  In  pomp  and  pride  the  governor  came. 

I  saw  the  crowd  in  homage  bowed, 

And  all  my  being  burned  as  flame. 

I  held  a  thing  more  cruel  than  State 

To  hurl  the  despot  down  to  hell. 

I  stood  and  smiled,  for  I  could  wait. 

And  stern  dream-voices  said,  *  'Tis  well.' 

And  as  I  waited  in  the  line 

Of  people  with  their  hearts  forlorn 

I  held  the  hand  of  Power  in  mine, 

And  dreamed  it  was  a  rainy  morn. 

And  as  I  dreamed  the  governor  came 

Before  me  and  I  smiled  the  same 

Sweet  smile  of  scorn,  and  then  I  hurled 

The  bomb  that  seemed  to  shake  the  world." 


37 


IX 

"  I  cannot  tell  what  happened  then ; 

The  crash  had  dulled  the  cries  of  men ; 

But  cleared  the  scene,  and  showed  to  me 

The  sight  I  dared  to  stay  and  see. 

The  governor  lay  with  sobbing  breath, 

With  body  torn  and  mangled  limb ; 

And  bleeding  horses  stamping  him, 

Wild-eyed  as  he  now  writhed  in  death. 

I  did  not  fear  to  see  him  so 

With  ruling  hand  to  tatters  torn ; 

For  as  I  stood  with  brain  aglow, 

I  dreamed  it  was  a  rainy  morn ! 

But  as  I  stood  I  heard  a  cry  — 

I  saw  a  woman  fall  near  by 

And  lift  a  little,  mangled  child, 

A  little,  bleeding,  dying  child. 

I  heard  her  soul's  cry  wild,  so  wild, 

That  all  my  senses  came  to  me  — 

I  fled  the  sight  I  dared  not  see." 


38 


''  I  fxcd  by  day,  I  fled  by  night 

The  dead  that  would  not  quit  my  sight, 

Across  the  land  and  o'er  the  sea, 

And  still  they  followed  on  with  me. 

Now,  often  when  the  waters  lie 

So  deep  and  dark  by  walls  of  gray, 

It  seems  if  I  but  dared  to  die 

That  they  w^ould  bear  my  soul  away. 

And  cool  its  fever  in  the  bay. 

With  all  the  days  my  heart  has  bled. 

And  now  I  know,  the  madness  past, 

Another  comes  when  one  is  dead 

And  rules  as  heartless  as  the  last. 

The   ruling   arm   that   dealt   its   dole 

Is  not  the  arm  that  wrecked  my  soul ; 

And  often  with  my  spirit  worn 

I  dream  it  is  a  rainy  morn. 

But  O,  that  I  should  bring  to  harm 

That  which  I  dreamed  to  save  and  bless. 

That  which  was  soft  for  love's  caress, 

The  weaker  arm,  the  weaker  arm! 

O,  what  a  fool  I  was  to  trust 

At  one  mad  stroke  to  stop  the  tears 

That  well  from  out  the  bitter  years. 

For  someone's  greed,  for  someone's  lust." 


39 


XI 

He  ceased  to  speak  when  shadows  came 

And  dulled  the  tower  window's  flame; 

And  as  he  sat  with  drooping  head, 

Long  in  the  silence  on  his  bed, 

I  could  not  speak,  but  went  to  him 

And  held  his  hand.     His  eyes  were  dim 

With  tears  as  he  looked  up  nor  said 

A  word  that  made  me  understand ; 

And  yet  I  knew  —  and  held  his  hand. 

And  as  I  thought,  strange  dreams  were  born. 

I  dreamed  it  was  a  rainy  morn ! 

But  ere  I  left  him  on  his  bed 

The  moon  came  out  and  radiance  shed 

About  the  silent  breathless  place 

And  lingered  on  his  thin,  wan  face. 


40 


FIREFLIES 

The  fireflies  are  cynics  small 
That  tiny  lanterns  carry 

To  see  if  they  can  find  at  all 
An  honest  fairy. 


41 


IN  THE  GIFT-GOD'S  PRAISE 

From  the  fields  where  the  flocks  of  the  Shepherds 

fed, 
From  the  shores  where  the  Fishermen's  nets  were 

spread, 
From  the  frown  of  the  Cross  where  the  Master  bled. 
Have  the  shamed  and  the  lost  in  the  darkness  cried : 
"  In  our  power  we  scorned  thee,  O  Lord,"  and  died. 
And  the  tears  and  the  blood  on  the  shattered  shrines, 
And  the  lies  and  the  lust  of  the  golden  days 
Are  as  fresh  and  as  sad  as  the  prophet's  lines 
As  we  turn  to  the  Lord  in  praise. 

As  in  times  of  old 
Lift  the  heights  of  the  morn  where  the  dawn-wnnd 

sings 
Ere  the  wares  in  the  mart  of  the  day  are  sold 

And  the  day  lies  cold 
In  the  glint  of  the  gold  on  the  west  wind's  wings. 

There  are  men  with  their  bitter  sermons  to  preach 

While  their  hearts  are  bitter  and  ill; 

There  are  men  with  a  song  in  the  depths  of  the  soul, 

And  the  song  will  not  be  still. 

There  are  fields  of  the  grain  and  fields  of  the  tares 

By  the  world-wide  ways  we  tread 

In  the  times  that  we  live,  and  we  take  and  we  give. 

And  we  profit  by  years  that  are  dead. 


42 


But  where  are  the  gods  that  we  knew  of  old, 
The  clean-limbed  gods  with  their  sun-kissed  hair? 
We  look  in  the  book  where  their  tales  are  told  — 

They  are  only  there. 
But  still  it  seems  in  the  beat  of  rain, 
The  warm,  sweet  rain  from  the  sky-fount's  mouth. 

That  we  hear  again 
The  gods'  soft  feet  and  the  songs  in  the  south. 

But  we  live  in  the  real 

And  dream  the  Ideal, 
And  the  gods  that  are  dead  have  left  us  One, 
The  Gift-God,  the  one  God.     His  will  be  done! 

Now  the  reapers  have  reaped  where  the  seeds  were 

sown, 
And  the  Gift-God's  eyes  have  smiled  on  his  own. 
From  the  frown  of  the  Cross  came  a  pilgrim  throng 
To  the  gates  of  the  West,  and  they  shouted  a  song. 
And  the  new  and  the  strong  land  has  given  them 

fruit, 
And  their  hearts  are  of  men  and   are  less  of  the 

brute. 
Now  we  know  that  the  proud  in  the  darkness  cried ; 
We  have  read  that  they  called  to  the  Lord,  and  died. 
And  we  strike  at  the  111  till  the  whole  world  hears. 
And  the  eyes  are  turned  to  the  flag  that  swings 
All  its  folds  by  the  gloss  of  the  Eagle's  wings. 
But  the  while  all  the  ills  of  the  yearning  years 
Are  at  strife  in  the  heart  and  at  play  with  tears; 


43 


And  starvelings  cry  In  the  market  place, 

And  the  weary  and  fallen  have  doubted  Grace; 

And  a  thousand  wrongs  and  a  million  fears 

We  have  left  in  their  hells  as  we  scanned  the  Years. 

"  We  are  the  Power,"  have  said  the  hosts 
Down  the  dim  ages  that  reek  with  tears; 
And  they  pass  to  the  silence,  poor  gaping  ghosts! 
What  have  we  learned  from  the  work  of  years? 
What  have  we  learned?     Too  little  to  praise; 
Though  we  deem  we  have  learned  the  world-worn 

ways. 
We  have   followed  the  sun  and  have  marked  the 

earth ; 
We  have  aided  the  powers  of  death  and  of  birth; 
We  have  sailed  at  last  as  the  fleet  birds  sail; 
We  have  wrapped  the  flag  on  the  frozen  pole  — 
And  what  can  it  all  to  the  Land  avail 
If  the  flame  of  its  pride  must  burn  its  soul? 


44 


From  the  hills  of  the  morn  where  the  dawn-wind 

sings, 
From   the   glint   of   the   gold   on   the   west  wind's 

wings, 
Have  we  sowed,  have  we  reaped  as  we  have  sowed, 
And  we  turn  at  last  down  the  sunset  road ; 
And  we  lift  our  songs  at  the  task  of  days 
To  the  heights  of  the  stars  in  the  Gift-God's  praise. 
And  out  of  the  star-lands  low  on  the  sea 
Answers  the  Voice  as  the  night  wind  mourns, 
"  Love  is  the  gift  that  I  give  to  thee ; 
Love  is  the  balm  that  healed  in  Me 
The  wounds  of  the  spear  and  thorns!  " 


45 


REALITY 

I  sang  of  Love  before  you  came  to  me; 
Now  I  am  living  love  and  sing  no  more 
The  early  songs  like  pink  shells  on  the  shore, 
Caught  by  great  waves  and  hurled  into  the  sea. 
No  more  my  heart  has  room  for  minstrelsy 
Like  moonbeams  swooning  on  your  chamber  floor, 
Like  shadows  of  frail  flowers  at  Life's  door, 
All  lacking,  somehow,  this  Reality. 

O  when  I  sing  of  Love  again  each  word 
Must  hold  wine  of  your  kisses  and  your  tears; 
Must  hold  warmth  of  your  body,  and  perfume 
From  silken  hair  that  in  your  dreams  was  stirred  — 
And  still  keep  thrilling  secrets  of  the  years, 
Hiding  away  each  precious  bit  of  bloom! 


46 


THE  GRAY  HAIRED  MADONNA 


Sunset  over  the  lands 

That  stretch  out   to   the  splendor   like  a  beggar's 

hands 
Reaching  for  alms! 
The  wind  calms, 
And  everywhere 
There  is  the  hush  of  prayer. 


II 

The  trees  are  temples  of  the  Lord ; 

Psalms  tremble  from  their  leaves. 

The  stones  are  altars,  and  the  sward 

Such  glory  receives 

That  every  blade  of  grass  that  grows, 

And  every  flower, 

Takes  on  an  aspect  of  repose 

And  holy  power. 

A  gray  haired  woman  stands 

Looking  across  the  sunset  lands. 

About  her  is  a  wonderful  repose. 

The  sunset  o'er  her  gray  head  faintly  shows 

A  halo  of  pure  gold. 

O  it  is  beautiful  thus  to  grow  old! 


47 


Ill 

Who  is  this  woman  with  the  soft  gray  hair? 

Her  face  is  turned  away 

As  if  she  sees  some  sight  divinely  fair 

Be}  ond  the  dying  day. 

She  stands  beside  her  gate, 

Who  soon  must  go 

Into  the  sunset  as  the  hour  grows  late 

And  the  last  splendor  flickers  faint  and  low. 


IV 

She  turns  her  face! 
Ah,  Holy  One, 
Mother  of  Grace, 
Who  gave  us  your  Son ! 

And  in  her  eyes 

The  Glory 

Not  seen  in  any  skies.  .  . 

A  Mother's  Story! 


48 


Oh,  had  I  power  to  tell  you  of  that  face 

With  eyes  so  tender  and  so  knowing, 

Showing  the  mortal  mother's  gift  of  Grace, 

And  showing 

The  sweet  divinity  that  shaped  the  Heart 

That  once  of  her  was  part. 

Before  her  Son  had  walked  in  Galilee 

Or  stilled  the  stormy  sea. 


VI 

Her  beauty  grew  with  years. 

Calmed  and  yet  glorified  with  tears 

She  shed  when  mortals  said  her  Son  had  died. 

Oh,  could  I  show  her  as  I  see  her  now  — 

That  blameless  brow.  .  .  . 

Now  she  is  satisfied  ! 


VII 

The  gray  haired  Madonna  is  waiting  to  meet  her 

Son 
After  her  toil  is  done, 
Knowing  His  gift  to  earth, 
Her  glory  in  His  birth; 
Know^ing  His  pain 
Has  been  a  poor  world's  gain. 


49 


O  gray  haired  Madonna  with  the  old  mother-eyes 
Watching  the  sunset  skies! 


VIII 


The  day  is  done. 

The  gray  haired  Madonna  folds  her  hands, 
And  whispers  across  the  sunset  lands, 
"My  Son!     My  Son!" 


50 


THE  DREAMER'S  HOUSE 

I  saw  the  Dreamer's  house  that  stands 

Upon  its  narrow  ground, 
Where  now  are  planted  seeds  that  soon 
Will   glory  bear  to  sun   and   moon, 

And  wall  the  little  house  around 
With  flowers  for  the  Dreamer's  hands, 

With  subtle  fragrance  and  sweet  sound. 

About  are  planted  mites  of  trees 
That  by  the  house  will  meet 

When  they  have  grown  for  many  a  year. 

Then  one  at  night  in  them  may  hear 
The  summer  rain  with  dancing  feet. 

And  even  now  the  Dreamer  sees 

In  them  the  birds  whose  songs  are  sweet. 

The  Dreamer  looks  upon  the  place. 

"  It  is  not  finished  yet," 
He  says,  with  eyes  that  see  the  heart 
Of  each  small  thing  that  plays  a  part 

Within  his  dream.     He  can  forget 
No  seed  he  sows.     But  one  efface  — 

His  dream  may  lose  a  violet! 


51 


Upon  the  house  the  Dreamer  stares. 

''  It  is  not  yet  complete," 
He  says,  with  eyes  that  see  the  eaves 
Stroked  by  the  soothing,  swaying  leaves 

Grown  from  the  twig  now  at  his  feet. 
"  The  years  will  bring  it  unawares 

The  things  that  make  its  presence  sweet." 

O  Dreamer's  heart,  O  dwelling  place 

That  is  not  finished  yet. 
From  out  the  earth  and  from  the  air 
The  years  will  bring  you  unaware 

Completeness.     May  they  not  forget 
To  cover  scars,  none  can  efface, 

With  skillful  rose  and  violet. 


52 


NEPTUNE'S  SONG  OF  HIS  HORSES 

They  have  breasted  the  storms  of  the  west, 
With  their  long  white  manes  like  spray; 

They  have  travelled  by  sun  and  star 

To  wonderful  bays  afar 

Where  the  wild  sea-children  play, 

Where  safe  is  the  sea-bird's  nest 
In  the  high  cliffs  gaunt  and  gray. 

They  have  pranced  and  rolled  on  the  shores 

Of  Greece  and  of  old  Cathay ; 
They  have  leaped  and  strained  my  hands 
Where  the  Statue  of  Liberty  stands; 

They  have  taken  the  bit,  dashed  away 
Through  hells  where  the  north  wind  roars, 

With  their  white  manes  cold  in  spray! 

My  horses  are  wild.     They  have  hurled 
Strong  men  from  their  path  to  die; 

They  have  trampled  the  weak  and  the  small 

And  the  beautiful,  trampled  them  all, 
Nor  heeded  a  pleading  cry. 

And  they  fret  at  the  walls  of  the  World 
And  the  little  ends  of  the  sky. 


53 


PANAMANIAN  NIGHTS 


RAINY  SEASON 

The  Recording  Angel  of  Hours 
Has  spilled  his  ink  on  the  sky, 

And  how  can  he  write 

In  his  book  tonight?  — 

O  Night,  with  the  winds  that  die, 

O  Night,  with  the  drooping  flowers 
And    palms   too   tired   to   sigh. 

The  Recording  Angel  of  Hours 
Will  open  the  Gates  of  Rain, 

And  wash  the  sky 

Till  night  goes  by. 

And  the  quick  dawn  comes  again  — 

A  dawn  with  the  breath  of  flowers 
From  out  a  Dream's  Domain. 


54 


II 

DRY   SEASON 

Crowded  stars  and  wide-eyed  moon 
O'er  the  hills  of  Panama! 
Night  of  Love,  go  not  too  soon 
From  the  dreaming  eyes  that  saw 
How  you  came  with  winds  and  stars. 
Now  you  wake  the  soft  guitars 
Somewhere  down  the  lazy  street. 
Let  the  light  and  laughter  be, 
While  the  little,  lilting  feet 
Dance  a  pagan  melody 
That  is  wild  and  sweet. 


55 


TO  THE  STATUETTE  OF  A  BOY 

(With  a  Thorn  in  His  Foot) 

What  brambles  did  you  run  through 

Scattering  the  bramble-dew, 
In  what  enchanted  meadows  where  the  wild   rose 

blooms  ? 
Seeking  what?     What  finding 
Where  the  paths  go  winding, 
In   and   out,    and    round    about,   all   haunted   with 

perfumes  ? 

What  fleet  streams  have  you  sped  by 

Chasing  bee  and  butterfly. 
In  what   enchanted   meadows  where   the   sky   lark 

sings? 
Pagan  heart  of  laughter. 
Leaping,  running  after 
Something  of  your  fancy  in  a  world  of  winds  and 

wings ! 

What  wild  rose  left  its  sharp  thorn 

In  your  foot  this  golden  morn. 
In  what  enchanted  meadows  where  the  grasses  wave, 
That  you  are  sitting  here  so, 
With  your  sunny  head  low, 

Picking  out  the  cruel  thorn,  all  patient  now  and 
brave  ? 


56 


Now  I  have  felt  your  quick  pain ! 

O  to  see  you  run  again 
Along  the  sunny  meadows  where  the  skylark  sings! 
Pagan  heart  of  laughter, 
Leaping,  running  after 

Something  of  your  fancy  in  a  world  of  winds  and 
wings ! 


57 


SONG 

I  would  that  I  could  lead  you 
Through  magic,  blooming  dells, 

But  here,  Love,  most  I  need  you, 
Where  Life  my  lot  compels, 

Far  from  the  inner  temple 
And  chimes  of  temple  bells. 

O  here,  Love,  most  I  need  you, 
And  so  it  still  must  be. 

And  while  I  long  to  lead  you, 
To  your  heart  3'ou  lead  me  — 

A  place  of  fountains  flowing, 
A  temple  by  the  sea. 


58 


ROUMANIAN  GIRL 

There  is  a  gliding,  shallow  meadow  stream 

In  Roumania  somewhere,  somewhere 
The  swaying  boughs  upon  a  low  shore  dream 

While  flakes  of  sunlight  fleck  the  air. 
And   through    the   stream,   with   lovely   white   legs 

showing 
Beneath  her  lifted  gown  of  colors,  wends 
A  peasant  girl,  bearing  across  her  shoulder, 
A  rod  with  water-jars  hung  at  the  ends. 
1  have  the  picture  here,  and  now  I  feel 
Rather  than  see  it  all.     The  waters  steal 
By  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  girl's  dark  eyes 
Hold   me.     She   smiles.  .  .  .  My   unseen    Self   re- 
plies : 

"  You  live  for  me,  ever  as  fair  as  now. 

Though  I  may  never  greet  you  at  the  shore. 
Nor  touch  the  dark  hair  on  your  sun-kissed  brow, 

You  shall  not  pass  and  leave  me  evermore. 
O  never  shall  I  touch  those  lips  that  smile. 

Yet  never  shall  the  smile  fade  in  my  sight. 
O  never  shall  my  head  find  rest  awhile 

Upon  your  breast  some  still,  moon-charmed  night. 
Forever,  from  mid-stream,  you  smile  at  me, 
Virgin   of   Dreams,    from   all   Life's   change  made 
free. 


59 


"  I  closed  my  eyes  before  you  once  and  dreamed. 

I  saw  you  pass  out  of  the  stream  and  go 
Along  a  narrow  path  where  no  blooms  gleamed, 

With  graceful  movements  lyrical  and  slow. 
I  saw  you  pass  within  the  narrow  door 

Of  the  squat  cottage  that  your  girlhood  knew: 
I  saw  you  toil  till  sunlight  glowed  no  more; 
I  saw  you  stand  bare-headed  in  the  dew 
And  greet  your  lover  in  the  hush  of  things 
(Why   did   my  heart   ache?)    under   Night's  wide 
wings. 

"  I  saw  you  wed,  I  saw  you  go,  with  him 

You  loved,  to  dwell  upon  the  sober  plain. 
I  saw  you  suffer  when  the  stars  were  dim 

To  bear  a  man-child  out  of  noble  pain. 
I  saw  you  toil  always,  but  never  more 

I  saw  you  cross,  as  here,  the  sunny  stream. 
Always  you  loved  and  suffered  while  you  bore 

Burdens  of  Want.  .  .  .    (O  God,  take  back  the 
dream ! 
I  want  her  as  I  see  with  open  eyes, 
A  smiling  girl  beneath  the  summer  skies.) 


60 


"  You  live  for  me  within  a  pictured  dream. 

O  I  shall  close  my  eyes  and  dream  no  more! 
Forever  I  shall  see  cool  waters  gleam, 

And  you  shall  smile,  and  I  shall  but  adore. 
The  World's  pain  shall  not  reach  you;  you  shall 
know 

Only  the  light  and  gladness  that  I  see 
Upon  your  face.     For  you  no  tares  shall  grow; 

No  one  shall  rob  j^our  Youth  of  Liberty. 
And  my  heart  shall  be  warmer  while  I  live 
For  Beauty  —  all  that  God  allows  you  give !  " 


6i 


HUNTING  SONG 

My  Heart,  we  will  ride  in  the  paths  of  the  wind, 

Through  crimson  and  silver  fire 
O'er  the  breast  of  the  plain  to  the  heart  of  the  hills, 
Through  the  sun  or  the  rain  with  the  olden  thrills, 

We  will  follow  the  Hounds  of  Desire. 
Heigh-ho !     We  will  follow  the  Hounds 
Through  bracken  or  barren  grounds, 
In  the  paths  of  the  wind  we  will  follow 
Where  the  urge  of  Life  abounds. 
By  hill  and  musky  hollow 
O  we  will  follow  the  Hounds. 

My  Heart,  we  will  ride  in  the  paths  of  the  wind, 

O'er  dust  and  leaf  and  briar. 
Past  the  streams  that  flow  with  their  songs  to  the 

sea, 
Past  the  things  that  know  what  it  means  to  be  free, 

We  will  follow  the  Hounds  of  Desire. 
Heigh-ho!     We  will  follow  the  Hounds 
While  the  horn  its  challenge  sounds. 
And  the  paths  of  the  wind  before  us 
But  a  far  horizon  bounds. 
Shouting  a  hunting  chorus, 
O  we  wnll  follow  the  Hounds. 


62 


My  Heart,  we  will  ride  In  the  paths  of  the  wind, 

Where  lonely  things  aspire. 
But  what  shall  we  gain  in  the  chase  that  is  long? 
Shall  the  ache  and  the  strain  take  thrills  from  the 

song 
While  we  follow  the  Hounds  of  Desire? 
Heigh-ho !     We  will  follow  the  Hounds, 
Though  we  bleed  on  the  rugged  grounds. 
In  the  paths  of  the  wind  will  awaken 
The  strength  that  from  Hope  redounds. 
Though  Faith  must  be  forsaken, 
O  we  will  follow  the  Hounds ! 


63 


SONG 

The  clouds  swung  onward, 
The  rain  went  after, 

Thrilled  to  the  distance 
With  lyric  laughter. 

The  winds  shook  branches 
That  were  our  shelter  — 

Shook  little  rainbows 
Helter-skelter. 

We  parted  the  branches. 

Lo!     Earth  was  new. 
The  rainbow  called  us  — 

My  heart  called  you! 


64 


THE  PALACE  OF  DREAMS 

By  the  luminous  shores  of  a  moon-kissed  sea 

Stands  a  mountain  of  purple  and  gold, 
Where  dream-winds  waft  from  a  starry  lea 

And  passion  blooms  unfold. 
And  here  are  the  shadows  swayed  to  rest 

By  the  lullaby  sounds  of  streams, 
And  here  on  the  mist-hung  mountain  crest. 
Facing  the  gates  of  the  wind-wild  west. 

Stands  the  wonderful  Palace  of  Dreams. 

The  palace  towers  all  vast  and  high 

Are  of  opal  and  amethyst ; 
And  the  arches  bend  with  the  arching  sky, 

Draped  in  the  silver  mist. 
And  there  in  front  of  the  magic  door 

Is  a  terrace  of  bloom  and  light ; 
But  out  on  the  wave-splashed,  rock-walled  shore 
Are  voices  wailing  forevermore 

From  the  deep,  dark  pits  of  night. 

In  the  lucent  halls  breathes  music  low, 

And  many  a  fountain  flows; 
And  feet  grown  light  o'er  dream-ways  go, 

Strewn  with  poppy  and  rose. 
And  dream-shapes  move  in  a  sensuous  dance, 

And  amorous  eyes  grow  bright; 
But  still,  like  sounds  in  a  weird  witch  trance, 
By  the  moon-pale  sea  that  sobs  and  pants, 

Are  voices  in  the  night. 

65 


"  Beware!     Beware!  "  the  voices  call, 

"  The  lullaby  sounds  of  streams, 
And  the  opal  and  gold  of  the  palace  hall, 

The  fair,  false  Palace  of  Dreams; 
For  there  we  strayed  too  far,  too  far. 

From  cares  on  the  busy  shore ; 
And  no  ship  comes  by  the  harbor  bar. 
For  our  ships  lie  low  where  the  sea-wrecks  are, 

And  all  our  world  they  bore." 

*'  The  Treasure  Isles  are  far  from  here 

Where  sirens  ahvays  sing, 
But  the  w^inds  are  free  and  the  skies  are  clear 

And  a  sail  is  a  flitting  w^ing. 
And  living  and  loving  are  wiser  lore 

Than  dreams  all  swift  in  flight; 
And  oft  in  a  cottage  along  the  shore, 
Whispering  love  forevermore 

Are  voices  day  and  night." 


66 


SONG 

O  there  are  mansions  glorious, 

Beyond  my  cottage  walls, 
Where  dwell  the  souls  victorious, 

And  the  clear  starlight  falls. 

The  Soul  at  last  its  mansion  finds. 

The  flesh  that  lingereth 
Sinks  into  sleep  behind  the  blinds 

In  the  small  House  of  Death. 

O  emptied  is  the  bowl  of  wine, 
Nor  tears  nor  smiles  may  start ; 

Snuffed  is  the  Light  that  used  to  shine 
In  mansions  of  a  Heart! 


67 


GIPSY  SONG 

How  can  we  stay  in  the  town 

Now  that  the  Winter  is  done? 
Somewhere  a  willow  lets  down 
Her  flowing  hair  in  the  sun. 
Somewhere  a  Road  is  turning, 
And  Dawn's  camp  fire  is  burning  — 
And  O,  my  heart  is  yearning 
To  go,  my  golden  one. 

Give  me  your  hand,  and  run 

Out  to  the  Road  that  we  know. 
Scatter  the  dew  in  the  sun  — 

And  our  hearts  will  sing  as  we  go, 
"  Somewhere  the  leaves  are  making 
A  tent  that  is  ours  for  the  taking. 
Somewhere,  when  stars  are  waking. 
Our  own  camp  fire  shall  glow." 

When,  on  the  Steeps  of  Sleep, 
Our  tent  of  stars  shall  glow, 
Let  us  send  through  stillness  deep 

This  song  to  the  hearts  below, 
"  Somewhere  a  Road  is  leading 
To  something  some  heart  is  needing  — 
Somewhere  a  Road  is  leading  — 
If  you  will  only  go !  " 


68 


SONG 

I  groped  through  blooms  in  the  dark 
And  a  fragrance  stirred  to  me, 

And  I  knew  that  I  touched  a  rose 
Although  I  could  not  see. 

So  for  your  soul  I  would  grope 
In  the  dark,  if  you  were  dead. 

As  I  knew  the  rose  I  would  know 
Your  soul,  and  be  comforted. 


69 


NEMESIS 

Ah,   will   you   know  me  when    I   come?     Behold! 

Do  you  not  see  me  in  the  lurking  years? 

I  have  the  scales  that  weigh  the  burning  tears 

That  you  have  caused  to  flow,  and  still  I  hold 

The  Scales  of  Justice,  without  lust  for  gold. 

I  am  the  voice  the  trembling  silence  hears. 

I  am  the  power  even  Power  fears. 

I  make  the  end  of  stories  never  told. 

Ah,  will  you  know  me  when   I  come?     Beware! 
I    may   not   be   as   you    have   dreamed.     My    form 
Changes  with  needs  of  Justice  on  the  Earth. 
I  may  come  as  a  child  with  golden  hair; 
I  may  come  as  a  beggar  in  the  storm, 
Or  as  a  leper  in  the  House  of  Mirth. 


70 


SMILES 

The  sweetest  smile  I  ever  saw 

Was  on  the  pale  old  face 
Of  one  who  lived   Life's  righteous  law 

And  drew  near  unto  Grace  — 
A  smile  made  eloquent  of  years 
Since  it  has  been  baptised  of  tears. 

The  kindest  smile  I  e'er  beheld 

Was  on  a  face  that  bore 
The  mark  of  years  when  hopes  were  felled 

To  struggle  up  once  more  — 
A  smile  made  beautiful  for  loss 
After  it  bore  another's  Cross. 


71 


CHANTY  OF  THE  WEST  WIND 


(( 


Yo  ho!     Yo  ho!  "  the  west  wind  sings 

All  merrily  and  strong, 
And  with  it  goes  the  flash  of  wings 
And  all  the  joy  of  living  things 

Like  spirits  of  its  song. 
"  Yo  ho!     Yo  ho!  for  the  hills  that  know 

How  near  the  stars  can  be; 
Yo  ho !     Yo  ho !  for  the  plains  that  show 

Their  broad  breasts  bare  and  free; 
Yo  ho!     Yo  ho!  for  the  ships  that  go 

Across  the  pulsing  sea." 
The  w^est  wind  sings  and  my  heart  sings,  too, 
O'er  the  hills  and  the  plains  and  the  sea  to  you. 

The  hills  reply  with  many  a  voice 

Of  sturdy  tree  and  stream. 
The  plains  make  answer  and  rejoice 
Through  all  the  minstrels  of  their  choice 

With  great  tones  of  a  dream. 
The  sea  sings  low,  but  its  voices  go 

W^ith  gull  and  spreading  sail, 
"  Yo  ho !     Yo  ho !  for  the  hearts  that  know 

The  thrill  of  the  billow's  trail ; 
Yo  ho!     Yo  ho!  for  the  lights  that  glow 

In  the  bay  beyond  the  gale." 
The  west  wind  sings  and  my  heart  sings,  too, 
With  the  hills  and  the  plains  and  the  sea  to  you. 


72 


THE  ROAD  BETWEEN  THE  WILLOWS 

The  road  between  the  willows 

The  happy  winds  sing  through, 
With  here  and  there  the  sunlight 

And  glimpses  of  the  blue, 
Is  the  road  that  we  shall  follow 
Down  through  the  stilly  hollow, 
With  lark  and  thrush  and  swallow. 
Where  dreams  are  ever  new. 

And  I  shall  take  the  wild  rose 

And  twine  it  in  your  hair. 
The  brooklet's  silver  mirror 
Will  hold  your  image  fair. 
And  all  the  willows,  swaying 
To  lutes,  will  see  us  playing 
In  cool,  clear  waters  straying 

Out  to  the  world  —  somewhere. 

And  we  shall  stay  till  moonlight 

Through  dewy  willows  gleams, 
And  we  shall  dance  w^ith  fairies 
That  haunt  the  lyric  streams. 
O  the  willows  will  be  dreaming. 
Through  misty  silver  gleaming. 
When  we  must  go,  still  seeming 
A  part  of  lovely  dreams. 


73 


WHAT  OF  THE  MORNING? 

What  of  the  morning 

And  the  wind  that  sings 

Eternal  songs  of  conquest  and  desire? 

Do  you  not  feel  your  heart  adorning 

Itself  in  all  the  living  glow  of  things, 

And  feel  your  blood  warm  with  the  sunrise  fire? 

Does  not  5^our  soul  feel  lifted  up  on  wings, 

Glad  as  the  bird  that  sings  a  morning  song 

Tender  and  sweet  and  strong? 

Now  grasses  dance  to  wind-songs  on  the  hill  — 

Slender  and  supple  dancers  in  the  sun. 

Does  not  your  heart  hear  melodies  that  thrill? 

Do  you  not  feel  quick  joys  that  leap  and  run, 

Like  little  wild  fauns  fleeing, 

Through  all  the  still  recesses  of  your  being  ? 

O,  are  you  not  a  part  of  things 

Waking  and  growing  ? 

Part  of  the  freedom  of  the  rested  wings, 

And  streams  forever  flowing? 

And  is  your  soul  less  supple  than  the  grass 

To  dance  the  songs  of  winds  that  pass? 


74 


What  of  the  morning 

If  you  cannot  be 

A  part  of  it  ?     Will  you  be  scorning 

The  natural  urge  of  rivers  to  the  sea? 

Will  you  see  one  seek  joy,  and  find  but  pain, 

And  say  that  all  his  dreams  were  dreamed  in  vain? 

Will  you  see  one  fight  till  he  falls,  and  say 

That  struggle  is  of  no  avail  today? 

Will  you  see  one  burn  with  a  great  desire 

And  scorn  the  ashes  —  since  you  fear  the  fire  ? 

Will  you  see  one  stand  fearless  in  the  light, 

And  say  that  he  shall  tremble  in  the  night? 

The  night  will  come  with  stars, 

With  whispers  through  the  silence  cool  with  dew. 

With  breath  of  strange  blooms  on  the  restful  airs, 

Bringing  the  balm  of  peace  to  olden  scars. 

To  those  who  lived  the  given  morning  through, 

Beyond  the  selfish  pride  and  small  despairs. 

The  night  will  come  as  natural  and  right, 

And  they  shall  pass  from  morning  into  night 

And  back  again  to  morning  that  shall  be 

Eternity. 


o  •  »  * 


•  »>•     »  la  •  »        •       ' 


75 


\ 


THIS  BOOK  IS  OTE  OK  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN     <N'T1AL    F.NE  ^OF    |5^„'=,^,':',?. 

WILU   BE    ASSESSED    ^C^/*'^^      ^„^  p^NALTY 
THIS   BOOK  ON   T"f  JT^^^tS  ON  THE  FOURTH 

Tv^rNTT'^O^-l    ON    -=    — "     °^^ 
OVERDUE. 


FEB  2n  1933 


AUG  151940 


LD  21-50rn-l,'3'j 


I  Lj      f  vy^Jv^v/ 


34G646 


r- 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


